


what's in a name

by LouPF



Category: The Grinch (2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 04:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16737550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: He is not named ‘the Grinch’ upon his birth. No, the name granted him when he appears in the small village is Felix. It means happy. It means fortunate.And he hates it.---Or: his backstory.





	what's in a name

He is not named ‘the Grinch’ upon his birth. No, the name granted him when he appears in the small village is _Felix_. It means happy. It means fortunate.

And he hates it.

*

He’s young, he’s green, and he’s different. The orphanage hadn’t been in use for decades before he showed up; parents take in children the moment they appear. Except – there hadn’t been any families looking for children when _he_ came, and by the time there were, _Who_ children were available.

Years are spent alone. In the dark, in the cold, alone and trembling. No one works at the orphanage, and as he grows older, the villagers slowly stop turning up to check on him. The other children are exposed to each other before him, and when cliques are formed, they’re not interesting in including others.

And he sits there, year after year after year, freezing and lonely and terrified – until the Whos get the magnificent idea of putting up a Christmas tree larger than any before. The lights are blinding, their voices raising and raising and echoing through the air, a cacophony of thunder and chaos.

He stands at the outside of the circle and stares at their clasped hands, at everything they own and all they’re getting, at the warmth and the closeness they share. He’s eight years old and he sees him and _them_ , sees a crowd of people and _him_ , sees a community and _him_ , sees _normal_ and **_him_**.

And he breaks.

(his heart never shrinks, it is never too small, but it shatters – it shatters and it _shatters_ , pieces and shards sharp and scattered, never to be fully recovered)

*

He’s eight and he’s more alone than ever, but he stumbles upon a cave system and –

(monsters live in caves, don’t they?)

– it’s perfect.

*

Within two weeks he’s already been down in the village three times, stealing books and food at every other turn. The books, he’s figured, are very important. There’s so much he doesn’t know how to do, and if he wants to survive, he needs to learn.

(no one’s going to teach him, of course, because why would they spend their time on him when they could spend it on something important, something _good –_ )

He studies the books, studies the words, and he learns soon enough how to make what he needs to. At night he sneaks down into the village. In the beginning he carries things in his arms, but eventually he finds his very first treasure. It’s a large piece of plastic that he scavenges from the top of some poor idiot’s lawn mower, and afterwards it’s easier to bring larger things with him. Tables, drawers, shelves. A heap of blankets that he stole through an open window. A pillow from some animal’s bed.

And he’s eight, nine, ten, bruised and filthy after stumbling one too many times. Christmas comes and goes and he stays in the cave, in a corner hidden away from all noise, huddled up in a ball with his head held between his hands.

He can hear them, can hear their songs, can see the lights –

*

He’s eleven and hated, trying to figure out how to knit so he can make his own clothes. He’s been looking for needles for some time, now, but to his great surprise and frustration no one seems to have a pair just laying around.

The window creaks when he pulls it down, and he freezes for a moment while he listens for noises. None come, and he exhales heavily before hopping down on the ground. He brushes of his hands and makes for the next house, hoping to be luckier there.

Before he gets that far something bumps into his leg. He startles, jumping nearly three feet into the air in shock –

and it’s a pup. It’s a pup with big, brown eyes and an even bigger heart.

“ – oh,” Felix says, crouching to come closer to the dog. “Hi.” He reaches for it –

(it’ll run it’ll run he _knows_ it’ll run _everything_ runs from him, he’s running from _himself_ –)

and it steps forward, pressing its head against the palm of his hand.

“Oh,” Felix repeats shakily, and his shattered heart burns. He pets the dog gently, lifting its chin to look for a nametag. There is none. “Are you alone, too?” he asks, and the dog barks, its tail wagging faster. Felix smiles, and it’s so long since the last time he did it that it hurts his cheeks. “I guess we’re alone together, then.”

He names it Max, and together they’re not _that_ lonely anymore.

*

(but a dog is just a dog and a dog will never be a person; max’ love is good and it is great but for a child it will never ever be enough)

*

He’s fifteen years old and has wandered down from his mountain to try and find some food; he’s caught, half his body down someone’s trash can, and the child screams and screams and screams until Felix bolts.

He slams the door behind him when he gets back, chest heaving, heart pounding –

Max comes running, burying his muzzle in his fur, whimpering at his obvious distress.

And Felix gathers him in his arms, holds him to his chest, and burns.

( _he’s horrible he’s a monster of course he is, a child looked upon him and screamed, a **who** child, the most joyous creatures that exist –)_

And the Grinch curls around Max, presses his forehead against his back, and breathes deeply.

*

(and he’s cold, he’s cold, he’s so terribly cold, his blankets too thin to ward of the chill –)

(it takes him days, weeks, _months_ to realize that the cold comes from within him.)

*

Years pass, and he gets colder, meaner, harsher. Slowly the cave becomes a home, furniture in every room, books filling the shelves of his library. The chill is muffled by blankets and carpets, lamps are hung up on every wall to ward of the dark.

It works.

(it doesn’t.)

He picks up several books through the years, reading through them time and time again. He teaches himself technology, mechanics, sewing and chess. How to melt glass and how to build things, the smallest of details and how to put them together in a bigger picture. Cooking, healing, inventing, drawing.

He needs to, in order to survive.

(he tells himself as much but it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, he only wants to rid himself of the pain for just a moment longer, just another second –)

(he learns too fast, he’s always learned too fast, and he picks up hobby after hobby, spends hours at a time slaving over books and metal and shards of glass –)

(and for some time, it works. for some hours the pain shies away for the rush of working – )

(but it never lasts.)

*

He shoos Max away from his bed when he’s twenty, because come on, he’s getting too old for that and he doesn’t –

( ** _deserve_** )

need that anyway.

*

(the first night he lies shivering, alone and lonely, surrounded and haunted by nightmares and darkness and shadows)

(the cave system that’s become his home reminds him, for the first time in a decade, of the bleak and terrifyingly empty corridors of the orphanage, of the lone rooms, of the endless halls of doors that still haunt him to this day)

(there’s an echo, a broken shattered echo bouncing of the stone walls – a hollow and sharp Christmas carol, and he begins to shake, heart pounding –)

(he wakes the next morning and thinks Max is gone, that he’s left him, that there’s no one there, that he is truly, absolutely, terrifyingly alone)

(Max hears him and knows him and comes running the moment he begins to panic, and the Grinch sits for a long time on the floor petting him gently.)

*

(and he’s drowning he’s _drowning he’s **drowning -**_ )

*

Years and years and even more years pass by with little to no change. He ages and grows older. Fiercer. Angrier.

(sadder.)

Max stays by his side, loyal till the last, and the Grinch is so, so thankful for that.

*

And then the fateful year comes. Christmas will be three times greater.

(his pain three times worse, the horrors and flashbacks and nightly terrors –)

*

He tries to sabotage their Christmas tree because it’s _horrible_ they don’t deserve it and it’s blinding –

he’s launched straight into it, and he hangs there, lights blinding, the crowd pushing, pressing –

(it’s all so sudden and it’s all so close and he _remembers_ that day, remembers the pain and the loneliness and the sorrow, the tugging and tearing and the shattering of his heart, the shards still sharp and lodged in between his ribs –)

(there are people everywhere singing and dancing and chatting and _together_ and –)

(Max isn’t there the _only person at his side_ and he’s alone and he’s _terrified_ )

He hurries out of the crowd and begins on the long trek back up the mountain.

*

Then there’s Fred, the reindeer who seemingly takes a liking to him. The Grinch bonds with him hard and fast – not like he’d done with Max, but still bonding, and for a few wonderful hours he almost believes that he has a new companion.

(that night’s sleep is the best sleep he’s had in years; Fred is warm and Max is warm and they’re both so close and so loved)

The sled works excellent and hope blooms within him, sharp and bright and _there_ , and he feels like flying, he feels like he has the _right_ –

Fred stops.

And he leaves.

(Grinch knew it he _knew it he **knew it,**_ everyone leaves and he always loses everything that matters)

(within him is a blizzard, fierce and terrifying and howling, whistling, _screeching_ )

*

“Everyone deserves to be happy,” the little girl tells him, and he knows she thinks he’s Santa, but he’s still _him_ , “don’t you think?”

(and it’s what he’s _always_ needed to hear, what he’s always _wanted_ to hear, and for a few very long and very painful moments he almost considers stopping –)

She flings herself at him and hugs him, then holds on for a long time. “Goodnight,” she whispers, before slipping away into the darkness.

“- goodnight,” he calls after her, baffled, dazzled, and confused.

*

He feels far from good when he comes home; and when the Whos start singing and he sees the girl close her eyes –

(“ _all the pain goes away”_ she’d said and he _wants_ , he _needs_ –)

He closes his eyes, forgets everything, and lets warmth wash over him.

(and his heart was never too small; it was just broken and hurt – and it doesn’t heal now, for healing takes time, but the shards soften, smoothen out, and the pain is no longer as clear or bright.)

And he almost risks his life for it, almost dies –

(“I’ve got it, Max!” he cries, wanting to comfort his dear sweet dog before it’s too late for even that, and fear is fluttering within him. “I’ve got it, just –“)

Fred is the one to save him. And oh, how that hurts, but it’s a _good_ pain. He didn’t know that there was such a thing as _good_ pain, but when he steps over to him and he lets the shock bleed into his voice he realizes that there must be.

“You came back,” he whispers –

(he can’t believe it he _can’t_ why didn’t he _go –_ )

and he carefully strokes his muzzle, patting him much like he did Max all those years ago –

“You came back,” he repeats, and the blizzard within him has turned into the gentle fall of snow on Christmas morning.

*

“It was me,” he tells the villagers of Whoville, and the honesty drips from his voice as he grasps the Christmas hat between his hands. He worries it between slender fingers. Twisting. Turning. Rhythmically, robotically. “I stole your Christmas because I thought it would fix – ”

( _me,_ the grinch thinks, _me, me, me, I thought it would fix **me**_ )

“ – something that happened a long time ago,” he continues, his throat closing around the words. “But it didn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

The crowd splits for him. They shy away from his presence, and of course they do, he’s the _Grinch_. Nothing can change that.

And he leaves.

Alone.

*

And then, somehow, by a very strange turn of events, he’s seated by the little girl’s dining table eating Christmas dinner.

“Do you mind if I say something first?” the Grinch asks quietly when Donna offers him the cutting knife.

“Not at all,” she says, and she’s smiling, warm and home and safe.

“I’ve spent my whole life hating Christmas,” he says, looking out at the family and the friends and the warmth. And he realizes, with a painful, tugging twitch, that for the first time in five decades he’s _part_ of it. “But now I see it wasn’t Christmas I hated.”

He takes a deep breath –

(calm. he’s calm, he’s collected.)

“It was being alone,” he says.

Felix sits down.

And he’s home.


End file.
